


Ask Who Is Sharing Your Mind

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [34]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Dean, Bottom Dean, Demon Deals, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Scared Sam, Sick Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:32:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn’t leave the house that often.</p><p>In which Sam is a mother hen, Dean is modifying direct orders to suit his own needs, and Ruby is the bearer of bad news.</p><p>Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Who Is Sharing Your Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Victor Von Doom.

 

How was he ever supposed to kill the one who has always meant the most to him?

How was John supposed to demand that of him?

Dean’s sweating, jump rope clicking against the floor with every slight lift of his feet. It’s not ideal. He fucking hates jumping rope, the stagnant continuity of it has never done much to dispel the thoughts in his head.

He’s just entered the fifth month of his pregnancy a week ago, and the doctor maintains that he’s healthy enough to pursue some kind of physical activity.

_that can entail anything, Mr. Winchester._

Dean had winked lewdly at the Doc, surprised that Lee had the compunction to even insinuate such a crass joke, considering that he was about as straight-laced as they came. Dean’s never been so happy to do such low-impact workouts before.

His calves burn, he’s been working out far past the recommended thirty minutes set by the doctor, but the pups love it, they’re just as antsy as he, and Maple’s scent becomes increasingly annoyed around two o’clock every day, if Dean is not, at the very least, squatting sideways in order to lace up his sneakers.

That’s something he can’t do without Sammy’s help, and he also doesn’t want to ask for it. Sam’s been tentative, this week since he’s been home, hanging about listlessly, body curled in on itself. Dean can see the way he trembles when he thinks he’s alone, pale and rigid, bowing his shoulders, warped string.

Dean sucks in an extra breath and regrets it, sputters out a cough and this messes his rhythm up, and he’s tripping over the rope.

“Damnit.”

He untangles himself, breathing heavily, sweat-slick strands of hair tickling his forehead. His children are still moving to the phantom rhythm, Lilac seems to be exceptionally mobile today, and Dean often wonders if Maple ever even sleeps.

Little fucker sits directly on Dean’s bladder, practically seeks it out. Dean knows he should probably cut back. But it’s felt so damn good to be active. He always stops when he feels his vision swimming, can sense the creep of numbing unconsciousness. Sam would lose his shit if he knew, and Dean’s careful to wait until his brother is out.

Sam doesn’t leave the house that often.

Bobby wanted Sam to drive up to Minnesota, he’s been up there for a month and a half, partially because there has been an epidemic of arachnid-related deaths, monstrous spiders, some not even normally contained within the walls of North America. It’s sequestered within one city, Dean can’t recall the name right now, and Bobby’s working with four hunters on this one.

Dean snorts.

Bobby doesn’t take cases that often, tends to research and provide outside help, but Dean knows that he’s aware that Dean is nesting, doesn’t want to be another scent to contend with. He calls Sam nightly, updates on Dean’s condition, and Sam has become the surrogate Bobby in his absence, pores over stacks of books, eyes squinting in low lamp-light.

Dean hears Sam shuffling around downstairs, muffled curse as he apparently hits something. Alpha snarl, quickly subdued, and then the scent is gone, wiped out. Dean wrinkles his brow.

“Dean?”

He hears his name, closer than he would have liked, and tries to spin around, curses at his new gravitational pull. He kicks his shoes off and in the corner, raises the corner of Sam’s shirt as high as he can to swipe at his damp face.

He was supposed to stop an hour ago, and Sam’s very conscientious about time.

He can hear Sam’s gait, light for a man of his size, and he perches himself awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his increased girth allowing for little range of motion.

Sam opens the doorway softly, his eyes taking in Dean’s relatively disheveled look, the pink glow of his skin. Dean tucks his entire bottom lip in his mouth and glances up, willing his breath to even out.

“Heya Sammy? What’s up?” His brother smirks, tucks long fingers into even deeper pockets.

“I can scent you, you know. When you’re working out. There’s nothing around here for miles, Dean.” Dean waves his hand, shoulders sagging as he realizes the game is up. “M’not just gonna sit here, Sam.” Sam nods conversationally. “I know. Dr. Lee said you can be active. I’ll trust that you know how much is too much.”

Sam’s nodding throughout the speech, self-assurance, and Dean’s face relaxes.

“Thanks. For not making it difficult.” Sam leans forward, habit made intent, wants to scoop Dean up, and Dean’s gotten so acclimated that he relaxes his body on instinct, almost raises his arms. Sam aborts the movement suddenly and clears his throat.

“You’re eating more,” he begins slowly, and Dean narrows his eyes. “What, is it too much for you?” Sam raises his hands in the air, eyes wide. “What? Hell no, Dean, it just means I gotta get more food. You haven’t eaten shit this entire pregnancy.”

Dean stares at his hands. Sam’s not wrong. And he’s not exactly eating much more now, still has nausea and crippling fatigue, but he only needs supplements for the calories he’s not getting, and Sam cooks him at least one meal a day, and he’s able to eat and keep it down most of the time.

Dean smiles then, real article, and he can scent Sam’s response, tendril of syrup in the air. “Alright.” Dean’s forehead creases. “Why you telling me this? Just go get it.” Sam growls, and he coughs in an ineffective attempt to hide it.

“I uh, I wanted you to know. That I was leaving.” Sam looks like he’s in physical pain, and it dawns on Dean that he’s been frightened of leaving him alone, has been curbing himself so that Dean’s as close to him as possible. Dean rockets his body into a standing position, small grunt of discomfort.

“Well, now you told me. I swear I won’t die or take a free fall down the fucking stairs, Sammy.” Dean walks over to his brother, puts his face against Sam’s chest. Sam falters for a second, big hand coming around Dean suddenly, stiff band around his waist, other palm cupping the back of his head.

“Yeah, I know.”

Sam backs up, releases him abruptly and provides him with the cautious ghost of a smile. “Keep your phone on. I’ll lock up before I leave.”

Dean doesn’t move from where he’s standing until he can hear the very faint sound of his baby starting up, and man does he fucking miss the purr of that engine. He can’t navigate the wheel with the giant tumor on his stomach, and he’s fairly sure that the car wasn’t designed with pregnant omegas in mind.

He’s lumbering down the stairs, less than ten minutes after Sam’s departure, hoping against hope that there’s like, a cherry stem left over in his kitchen, when he hears the sound of a rock hitting a window.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. His pups tense, they can sense his alertness, and he rolls his eyes to high heaven. Are they staked out? Fucking waiting on Sammy to leave? Dean’s a pretty weak fight still, but he’s a sight better than he was last time.

He ain’t going anywhere with anyone.

He slides into the kitchen, early morning sun and dew, still has the faint remnants of Clorox, the way Sammy spiked the room when he cleaned it, stayed down there for four hours, scrubbed his skin raw.

Dean can see it now, blood on the leaves.

The knife rack is on the counter closest to the kitchen opening, and Dean rolls his eyes, knows Sam moved it there for his convenience. He slides the largest one out, hefts its weight in his palm. He wishes he had thought to grab his own, but goddamnit, he was just trying to get a snack.

He glances down at the grey sweatpants he’s wearing. And these are new! Sammy just bought them, fresh from the store, and they’re expensive. They’re supposed to grow with him, or some shit. Dean wonders if he has time to hobble upstairs to change, and then reluctantly admits that his visitor might not have the same patience as he.

“What do you want motherfucker?”

There’s an element of exhaustion in his voice, and part of that is mental. He is not in the mood.

The incessant toss of rocks ceases, and Dean hadn’t even realized it had been continuing all this time. It doesn’t sound menacing, almost repetitive, and Dean ignores his better judgment and walks towards the front door, pulling it open a crack.

“Dean? Dean Winchester?” Dean doesn’t recognize the voice but it’s decidedly female, and even if she’s proficient at mixed martial arts, odds are she weighs less than she does, and like hell he won’t use that to his advantage.

He holds the blade carefully against his side and opens the door more fully.

“Oh, fuck.”

The blonde looks taken aback, and then a sultry grin slides onto her face.

“Hey there, Papa Dean. You think if you shit they’ll just fall right out?” She motions to his bump with the extended handle of her blade, and Dean backs up a step.

It’s Sammy’s friend. Who is, apparently, a bitch.

“Sam ain’t here.” He says this tersely, looks her up and down. She’s a pretty thing, and her hair is sitting in a high ponytail on her head, carolina blue eyes and fringed lashes. “Oh, I know. I need to talk to you.”

Dean huffs, lowering his weapon a bit.

“What, too good to use the front door?” He leaves it slightly ajar, makes space for her. “M’not talking in the hallway. Fucking back hurts.” She makes a small noise, protesting squeak, and then sighs noisily through her teeth.

“Make everything so difficult, Sam.” She mutters, rolls her eyes to the sky and cracks her neck, taking a careful step away from the door.

“I can’t get in. I can’t even get close.” Dean’s face twists.

“What are you talking about--” he watches, a mixture of disbelief and resignation, as her eyes flicker to black. She blinks twice and then they shift back. She lets a smile curve her features. “I’m just visiting from downstairs. Warm, there, this time of year.”

Dean curses lowly, tightening his grip on the knife.

“Son of a fucking bitch, what the hell do you want?” He clambers outside fully, not giving her a chance to respond. “Now Sam’s fighting with you motherfuckers? What’s next?” He knows he’s yelling at the wrong person but his blood pressure is up, and now he has to have this fucking conversation in the cold.

He can see his ice-breath, and he wraps chilled arms around himself.

“Make this quick.” She begins to pace, flipping her blade through practiced fingertips, and Dean has always been able to appreciate good knife-handling skills.

“The one that took you? I know who he is. He’s not one of Lilith’s. Fuck, he’s not one of anyone’s.” She looks nearly as disturbed as she did in the prison, eyes rolled back in her head, scent of vulnerability and madness, it’s a cruel summer.

Dean shakes his head, confused. “He’s gonna kill ‘em both. That won’t make any difference to him.” He pauses. “What exactly are you trying to stop, here?”

She rakes her hands through her hair, momentarily forgetting that it’s trapped in a ponytail. “They both want him dead. Dean. I need him. We have a _deal_.” Dean growls and takes a large step forward, lapse in judgment, forgets he’s full of Sam’s babies and needs to practice diplomacy.

“I don’t give a fuck about any deals. So, he’s in danger.” She looks pale, dark circles ringing her eyes, and he can scent the death when he’s this close, warm coffin.

“He’s always been in danger, Dean.” She says mirthlessly, arms crossed. “Lilith wants him dead because Crowley and I want her dead. That’s simple math.” Dean’s head is reeling. Who the fuck is Crowley? He decides now isn’t the time, because the demon-bitch is frantic, and she’s trying to tell Dean something without saying much.

“Alright. So you’re telling me that Sam’s got two motherfuckers that want him dead, for different reasons?” Blondie nods, face pensive.

Dean backs up so that he is level with the porch and eases himself down, curls one leg underneath the relative warmth of his body.

“I take it you’re not tellin’ me this out of the kindness of your heart.” Dean spits the words at her, broken wings, and she grins, wide slice of teeth. “I’m a regular saint, Dean, don’t you know?” The grin slips and she inches closer to him, desperate in her onus.

“We need him, fuck, you need him to finish this deal. And that’s what he’s gonna do. But he’s gonna go after him, Dean.”

Dean sits forward, stomach a deadweight in the air.

“Who is he? What’s his real name?”

Blondie wrings her hands, and he gets the sense that she’s not intimidated by much, she’s all cutting words and sharp punches.

“I can’t tell you.” She motions to the air around her. “It’s not for us to say. He’ll hear.” Her features twist and she puts two white-knuckled hands around the worn edge of her knife-handle. “I don’t know what he wants with him. But you gotta make sure he stays away.”

Dean presses his palms into his eyes, rubs them til they ache.

He can hear her moving, nervous energy, and he wants to throttle her, remember what it feels like to unleash blood, let it pool in his fingernails. She takes a deep breath, all snark in her voice evaporated when she begins to speak.

“If he dies, if he’s killed, it’ll be because of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> See, this is why no one likes Ruby.


End file.
